


Timebo Deus

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Post-Episode: s14e20 Moriah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 06:07:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18632350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: Dean and Castiel have a lot to talk about.





	Timebo Deus

_ Hope you’ve got your things together _

_ Hope you are quite prepared to die _

_ Looks like we’re in for nasty weather _

_ One eye is taken for an eye _

 

—”Bad Moon Rising”, Creedence Clearwater Revival 

  
  


The dead surround them. Three of them against an innumerable army of creatures they’ve never faced before; the sun is gone and the air is ice-cold despite the summer month.

 

“Close your eyes!” Cas yells; an old command, fierce and protective--the call of a leader. Dean obeys and he feels the ground beneath his feet  _ whoosh _ ; electricity fills the air, making his hair stand on end. The earth trembles and seizes and it seems to last forever. The dead scream, but it sounds  _ wrong _ . Whiny and inhuman. Dean’s ears ring with a high pitched noise.

 

And then it’s done.

 

Dean inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales. And then he opens his eyes slowly. 

 

The dead are gone. Now it’s the quiet that drives Dean’s discomfort. He looks around, swallows, and it’s only then that he sees Cas face down in the dirt.

 

“Cas?” his voice is barely a whisper. His heartbeat thuds in his ears.

 

Slowly, Dean kneels and turns Cas over. Sam comes right beside him. Cas’s eyes are closed and blood leaks from both nostrils, tacky and almost black. Sam puts his hand in front of Cas’s mouth, and for several long seconds, Dean can only watch.

 

“He’s breathing,” Sam says at last. Dean closes his eyes and sighs. He looks to the starless sky. 

 

“Son of a bitch.”

 

Sam’s gaze moves to Jack, yards away, unmoving. Dean’s throat swells. 

 

“We gotta get them back to the bunker,” Dean says. 

 

“And then what?”

 

Dean doesn’t have an answer. 

  
  


.

.

.

 

They wrap Jack’s body in a sheet pulled from the Impala’s trunk, actively avoiding looking at his face. They lift him up together and place him in the backseat of Cas’s truck. Sam helps Dean load Cas into the backseat of the Impala, and then he takes off in the truck.

 

Dean looks at Cas a while, chest aching. He wipes at Cas’s nose with a wrinkled bar napkin he found in the glove compartment, but the blood keeps coming, slow and thick like molasses. He gives up eventually and gets into the driver’s seat. He stares at the graveyard. There is a giant circle where all the grass is burned off; the headstones cobbled into tiny pieces. The Mother Mary statue that stood in the center is destroyed, too; crumpled into pebbles, unrecognizable. 

 

He turns the engine on and heads home, glancing in the rearview every few seconds. But Cas doesn’t twitch. 

 

.

.

.

 

Sam puts Jack in Jack’s room. Dean needs Sam help to bring Cas to his. Cas’s eyes open briefly, and for such a short amount of time, that Dean swears he imagines it. Then they’re closed again, and blood still drips from Cas’s nose onto the collar of his shirt. 

 

Dean takes off Cas’s shoes and tie, and drapes a blanket over him. He looks at Cas for a minute before he turns and exits, leaving the door open a crack.

 

Sam is in the library, a whiskey glass in front of him. It’s nearly overflowing, with some having spilled onto the table. Dean takes his flash out from his jacket and sits across from Sam. They sit in silence for a long time. Time stretches out and becomes meaningless. Almost like it did in Hell, where existence just stilled, tense and noiseless. 

 

Then Sam breaks it and says, “I fucked up.”

 

Dean raises his eyebrows and takes another deep drink. His throat is numb and can no longer feel the burn of the alcohol. 

 

“I shot God. Pissed him off royally. This is my fault.”

 

“Sammy—”

 

“I couldn’t not do anything! He--he was killing Jack. He was  _ torturing  _ him. I had to do something.”

 

“Sam—”

 

“And now look. The world is ending and it’s on me! Again.”

 

“Stop it!” Dean slams his hand down on the table. Sam flinches. Dean sighs and shakes his head. “None of this is your fault. That’s all on God.”

 

Sam snorts. His eyes are teary. He rubs at his face and takes another drink. “The world is ending  _ again _ . And this time, God actually did start it. We don’t even know what’s going on out there. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to know. From what happened in the graveyard, it’s not good. People are going to die. People are already dead, out there. Because of us.”

 

It wouldn’t be the first time. Dean stares at his flask, head fuzzy and mouth dry. “You need to rest. How’s that shoulder anyway? I didn’t even get a look at it.”

 

Sam rolls his shoulder in response. “Think I’m too drunk to feel it. It’s a through and through anyway. Don’t have the energy to stitch it up. Just threw a bandage on. Got it done before you got home.”

 

Dean taps his fingers on the table. “Cas can heal it, once he’s feeling better.”

 

Sam pauses. “How is he?”

 

“Resting. But he’ll be fine. Just needs a recharge.”

 

Sam stares at him without talking. Then, warningly, “Dean.”

 

“Go to bed, Sam. Rest. We can’t do this right now.”

 

Sam looks like he wants to say more. His mouth opens, then shuts. After a long moment he stands, chair scraping against the floor. He heads down the dormitory corridor.

 

Dean stays in his chair and drinks and drinks.

.

.

.

Hours go by. Dean stays in that chair. He gets up once to puke in the kitchen trash can when he gets too drunk. His stomach churns and churns and he wobbles his way back to that chair and rubs at his forehead, willingly his mind to go blank.

 

All he could think of though was God standing there. Jack dead. Cas on his knees, sobbing.

 

_ Welcome to The End _ .

 

A sound makes Dean jump. He turns and sees Cas in the corridor, leaning heavily against the wall. His clothes are rumpled, hair a mess; purple circle are printed under his eyes, and the skin around his nose and mouth is stained red.

 

“Hey,” Dean whispers, voice cracking. He stands, and then doesn’t know what to do. Cas limps his way to the table, stumbling some when he gets to the steps. Cas sways. His eyes are unfocused. He should still be in bed. Dean goes to help him, and then stops when Cas makes it on his own. 

 

Cas stands in front of Dean. Their eyes meet. For the first time in several days, they are not standing each other down, but gazing in mutual grief. Then, Cas throws his arms around Dean’s neck and starts to sob. Dean stumbles backwards at the unexpected touch. His heel catches around the leg of the chair, and he falls, taking Cas down with him.

 

Cas doesn’t let go. His tears are hot and salty against Dean’s neck; he’s wheezing and can’t pause long enough to swallow air. Dean doesn’t know what to do. He’s  _ never _ seen Cas like this. He’s never Cas so openly emotional, so desperate for touch. And he has no idea why Cas wants this from  _ him _ . So much has happened these past few days. Dean’s said stuff he can’t take back; stuff he doesn’t even know to begin to apologize for.

 

Right now, though, Cas doesn’t need apologies. He doesn’t need Dean to speak. He needs  _ this _ , and this is all Dean can give; so give he does. He rubs at Cas’s back in small circles he hopes are soothing, and just lets Cas cry.

 

Cas cries and trembles; the kind of sobs that go bone deep, leaving you exhausted and numb, until you’re an empty shell of a person.

 

Time is meaningless. Eventually, Cas slumps, arms leaving Dean’s neck. He sniffs and rubs at his nose. It’s started bleeding again. He leans away from Dean and braces his back against the table leg. 

 

“I looked in his room,” Cas says. Dean grits his teeth. Cas saw the body. Sam wrapped it up neatly and tight, just like Dean once did for Cas. “I tried to save him,” Cas continues, voice hoarse. “I tried to stop it and I couldn’t do  _ anything _ , I was useless.” Cas punches the floor and when he pulls his fist away, there is a dent in the concrete. “I couldn’t stop it.”

 

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He’d been prepared to kill Jack. Not because he wanted to. He didn’t want to. He wanted there to be another way. He wanted any other option. But there was none; and he couldn’t let Jack continue to kill people, accidentally or otherwise. Jack was like a rabid dog, and Dean had to Ole Yeller him to protect everyone else. It didn’t matter what he wanted. All that mattered was protecting the many.

 

He didn’t  _ want _ it. And he especially didn’t want it like  _ that _ . He’s seen angels smite people before. It’s quick; usually the victim didn’t even have the time to scream. Jack, though. Jack had suffered. 

 

“He was in pain,” Cas chokes out, “and I couldn’t help him.”

 

Dean wants to reach out and touch Cas, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed that; not after all the awful things he’s said.

 

Dean doesn’t know what to say, or what to do, so he lets his mouth work before his brain, and his tongue forms, “Your dad’s a dick.”

 

Cas scoffs. “He’s a--a mega dick.” Cas reaches up to the table and grabs the whiskey bottle. He drinks straight from the bottle, downing what has to be four fingers of whiskey before he pauses. 

 

“Go slow,” Dean advises. “Stuff will make you sicker than a dog.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

Cas drinks again.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. “About everything. What I said. I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean it. I swear.”

 

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Cas says. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

 

Dean winces at that. 

 

Cas drinks again and when he pauses, says, “I don’t like it when we fight.”

 

Dean snorts. “You think I do?” He sighs. “We’re a family. Families fight. They fight and. . . they forgive.”

 

Cas looks at Dean with the corner of his eyes. He looks so sad. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face is flushed. “Of course I forgive you, Dean.”

 

“I know an ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t enough. But it’s all I have right now.”

 

“You didn’t kill Jack. You had the motive, the opportunity. You could’ve done that, and you didn’t. You made that choice.  _ That _ is enough for me.”

 

“Didn’t do any good,” Dean scoffed. And for the first time, Dean lets himself weep over Jack. Cas had been right--Jack was good for them. Jack filled in a piece Dean hadn’t even known  was missing. Jack was family; he was their son. 

 

And now he was gone.

 

And the world was falling apart. Again.

 

Cas saved them. Again.

 

Cas shivers, teeth chattering.

 

“You hurt?” Dean asks, thinking of Cas lying on the ground; trying not think of the last time he’d seen Cas lying on the ground.

 

Cas shook his head. “My. . . batteries are drained. But I’ll be. . .” He can’t say he’ll be okay. Dean knows why. Cas swallows another finger of whiskey. “What now?”

 

Dean thinks. The bunker is well-stocked. There are storerooms filled with MREs. Cas doesn’t need to eat. They can survive for several months; maybe a year or more, if he and Sam are conservative with food. 

 

He thinks of everyone else. Jody, Donna, the girls. Garth, with his wife and baby girl. Rowena. He thinks of the little town of Lebanon. The bartender that knows his favorite cocktail. The mail lady that always greets him with a smile. The little diner at the edge of town that always has fresh peach pie, handmade by the owner’s mother. 

 

He thinks of the rest of world. Wonders how many people are dead by now. Wonders if there is a world left outside the doors of the bunker. 

 

“I don’t know,” Dean answers. “We’ve faced every big bad there is, Cas. But God? How do we fight God?”

 

“I will hunt him down and hang him myself,” Cas spits. “I want him to suffer. He needs to suffer. I hated him when he just ignored us, when he let horrible things happen on their own. But this time--he did this. He made this happen. What I feel now. . . He killed our son.” Cas’s voice breaks. A hoarse, broken sob rips out his throat again.

 

_ Our son _ .

 

Dean’s heart is squeezed in a vice.  

 

He reaches over and puts one arm around Cas’s shoulder. Cas immediately leans into him. Dean kisses the top of Cas’s head, and scratches at the nap of Cas’s neck.

 

“I wish I couldn’t feel anything,” Cas says. “Nothing has ever hurt this bad.”

 

“You’re not alone,” Dean whispers. “We’re in this together. We’ll avenge him. We’ll make God suffer. We’re a team.”

 

Cas lifts his head and faces Dean straight on. 

 

_ He’s still beautiful _ , Dean thinks. Eyes red, purple circles, face flushed and blood-stained, he’s beautiful. His grief is raw and tangible, so intimately human, just like Dean’s with Mom. Dean grieves Jack, too, and the world that is ripping apart at the seams right above them. 

 

Cas is here, though, and in pain; a human pain, wrought by grief and anguish. Dean is reminded of Cas’s plight; his journey from angel to where he is now--human, as far as Dean is concerned, even if technically he’s caught somewhere between angel and man.

 

Dean loves him, and Cas’s heart is breaking right in front of him.

 

He leans forward and kisses Cas on the lips. They are salty from tears, but also soft and taste of whiskey. Cas is still as stone for a moment, but then he responds slowly, innocently. There’s no heat, no immediacy. They may as well be two middle schoolers at their first dance.

 

But there is so much love. Dean can taste it, mixed in with everything else; the blood, the whiskey, the pain, the grief. Castiel tastes of love. 

 

They break and press their foreheads together. 

 

“What are we going to do?” Cas asks again, palm pressed against Dean’s heart.

 

Dean swallows. “What we always do,” he says. “Save the world, or die trying.”

 

“I don’t think the odds play in our favor.”

 

“They’ve been stacked against us before.”

 

“This isn’t Michael and Lucifer. This is  _ God _ . The same God that flooded the earth. The same God that turned the Nile into blood, and slaughtered the first borns of Egypt. This is a God enacting his wrath upon us simply for his own amusement.”

 

“I don’t care. As long as we’re together--you, me, Sam--I don’t care. We stand together. We die together. There’s no one I’d rather have by my side when the end comes.”

 

Cas sighs. “I feel the same. Of all the soldiers I’ve had by my side, through all the millenia I’ve been alive. . . you and Sam are the strongest warriors I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. There would be no greater than honor than to die by your side.”

 

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. Cas is always so sincere it hurts. It makes Dean feel even shitter about the things he’s said.

 

“I really am sorry,” Dean says. “I want you here. With me and Sam. I love you.”

 

Cas looks into his eyes. He traces Dean’s jaw with his fingers, warm with alcohol buzzing in his blood. “And I love you, Dean Winchester.” This time Cas leans forward to initiate a kiss and Dean complies.

 

Above them, the world falls apart. Their son’s corpse lays in his bed. God is out to kill them.

 

But for right now, Dean can try to pretend everything is all right.

 

For right now, he’ll sit and savor these sweet kisses with Castiel. 

 

It’s all he has. 


End file.
